“Well . . . it is possible you may change your mind later. Have you taken the London Matriculation?”
“No, sir. I was on the classical side at St. Luke’s. I was reading for a scholarship at Oxford.”
“And changed your mind . . . or” (shrewdly) “had it changed for you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is your father a doctor?”
“No.” It really doesn’t matter what my father is, thought Edwin, and the Dean, as though answering his reflection, said:—
“No. . . That doesn’t matter.” And, after a pause: “Well, Mr. . . . er . . . Ingleby, you have made a good beginning. I hope it will continue satisfactorily. That is all, thank you. Good-morning.” He held out his hand to Edwin, who was astonished into putting out a moist hand himself. “Yes,” continued the Dean in a suave, reflective voice, “you will pay your fees to my secretary, Mr. Hadley. This is . . . er . . . Mr. Hadley. Yes.”
Mr. Hadley acknowledged the introduction with a lift of the right eyebrow and Edwin left the room.
“Mr. Martin,” said the secretary, as he left, and “Mr. Martin, please,” the porter repeated.
“I say, wait a moment for me,” said the loose-limbed Irishman to Edwin in passing.